You dream, you imagine, you sit next to a fireplace in a bar off the Plaza, you listen to Iman read her poetry out loud, in Arabic, in English, you begin to see the streets of her childhood, you feel the emotions the words were carrying, you feel the cadence of Arabic, it reminds you of Urdu which you understand in sounds and memories and the mix of images and sounds and the heat of the fire and the brightness of the day, all this you register as vivid, as a moment that is moving you, and you know - you know how these things go - you know that here are the seeds of something, here is the start of a story.That's where it began for me. That afternoon in November. It was Halloween I think. Asi es.